


If They Get The Chance, They'll End It For Sure

by cormallen



Category: Supernatural
Genre: F/M, Winsister, Wishverse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-23
Updated: 2010-01-23
Packaged: 2017-10-06 14:38:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,169
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/54762
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cormallen/pseuds/cormallen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Wishverse fic.</p><p><i>Sam and Dean, sittin' in a graveyard. Every night, always and forever, no matter how you slice it. Even in this bizarre dream world where Sammy has boobs and there are no demons.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	If They Get The Chance, They'll End It For Sure

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to the usual suspects I inflicted this upon -- I'd get nowhere without your help, and I hope you know how much I adore every one of you. And special thanks to [rejeneration](http://rejeneration.livejournal.com) for the beta and for her incredible patience throughout.

Dean wakes up with the remote jabbing into his side, blinks his eyes open to black and white figures swarming around on the TV, tinny muted sounds of faked terror backed by a creepy unseen orchestra. He stares at the screen for a moment, a crying woman uselessly flailing her naked arms at the camera, the strap of her flowered dress ripping off of her shoulder, then presses the power button and turns over, pulling on the blankets as he goes.

There's a girl sleeping next to him, curves and dark curls, face mashed into the pillow. She mutters something in her sleep when he yanks on the quilt, stretches out a pale arm, grasping at his side of the bed and he twitches away before her fingers connect.

It's not that he hasn't been here before -- well, not here, exactly, but near enough -- someone else's bed, someone else's house, scrambling for his clothes in someone else's bedroom before the alarm goes off. It's something else. Something more. The girl mumbles again, settling down; he can see her face, thick lashes and glossy lips, pretty and unfamiliar in a way it shouldn't be even if she _was_ a stranger.

He doesn't remember going home with her. Doesn't remember her name or what she drank or the taste of her mouth. The feel of her, what she sounds like, except for the surly noises she apparently makes when her bedmate hogs the covers. He doesn't remember meeting her, or Sam's eye roll at his _don't wait up_.

Sam. He was on the phone with Sam, he remembers that much, parking the car in an alleyway, sidestepping the crush of broken glass, trash on the floor of an abandoned warehouse.

The warehouse. It comes back to him in a flash of blue light, tattooed hands prying him apart, claws dragging down his forehead and cheeks, sinking into his skull.

_The Djinn. Knife and flashlight tumbling down to the grimy floor_.

Dean pulls on his shirt, feels for his phone in his jeans pocket. He closes the bedroom door quietly behind him, careful steps into the living area beyond, ignoring the pictures on the walls, the huge flat-screen in the corner and the guitar on its metal stand. Another time, he might appreciate this chick's choice of a Sony LCD, the stack of Car And Drivers on the sideboard, but now, his fingers are already choosing Sam's number out of his cell's memory.

The Djinn did something to him; screwed with his memory, maybe, he thinks as he listens to the beeps, maybe brought him here, although what fucking reason a Djinn would have to leave him in bed with some chick, Dean has no idea. Either way, Sam needs to know it's still out there -- unless he does already, _pick up, dammit_, he urges the phone, _come on, come on_.

"Your call has been forwarded to an automated messaging system," says the mechanical voice in his ear, "at the tone, please record your message."

"Sam, what the hell," he snaps into the receiver, "come on, pick up. I, uh, I have no fuckin' clue where I am. The Djinn, it put its hands on me, and I woke up -- shit. Call me back as soon as you get this. I gotta go."

The girl's leaning on the doorjamb, bedsheet wrapped around her and trailing to the floor -- she's short, tiny, white sheet tight around her tits, her little waist. Shows him teeth and tongue as she yawns, wide and pink, bringing a hand up to her mouth.

"Honey, what are you doing up? And -- dressed," she adds, blinking. "Did something -- happen?"

"Dean," she presses when he doesn't answer, can't think of a single word to tell her, half-naked woman he's definitely never seen before tonight who says "Dean" and "honey" like they're the most familiar things in the world.

"Sam wouldn't pick up the phone," he blurts out when she steps closer, arms going around him like she's sure she has the right, sleep-warm body pressing into him.

"Sam? I thought your mom said they weren't getting in until tomorrow," she says, wrinkling her forehead; the sheet's slipping down her side, the cloth coming loose where she's tucked it shut. And isn't that a goddamn testament to how fucked up this is, that it's the last thing he wants to see right now, breath caught tight in his chest.

"They?" he asks, hoarse, and she nods, "yeah. Sam and Jess -- your mom's birthday -- "

"My mom's birthday," Dean repeats dumbly, and the girl draws back a little, reaches soft fingers to his cheek.

"You sure you're OK? Doesn't feel like you have a fever, anyway," she says, and he finally finds his voice again.

"Nah, no, I'm fine. Listen -- just go back to bed. I'm good. I'll just, I'll be in in a bit."

"'kay," she nods agreeably, "just don't stay up too late, babe."

He forces himself to wait until the bedroom door clicks shut, soft footsteps and a soft smile she gives him before she flips the light switch off, and then he's searching frantically through the pile of mail on the counter, pulling open closet doors, a cupboard, a junk drawer.

Most of the mail is addressed to a Carmen Porter -- #53 Barker Avenue, Lawrence, KS, 66044 -- and that gets his pulse hammering again, blood rushing double-time, even before he sees the envelopes addressed to himself, a bank statement, a handful of bills. One colorful card -- balloons and candles spelling out "party" -- signed "to Dean and Carmen". A grocery list tacked up to the fridge in what's unmistakably his own handwriting, held up by a bright, banana-shaped magnet, along with a glossy photo of him and the girl -- Carmen -- holding hands in front of a giant waterslide. _Ice cream: Rocky Road_ tops the list, sloppily underlined with thick red marker.

There's a familiar jacket tossed over a kitchen chair -- green canvas Dean knows he finally tore to rags a couple months back -- it had a bleach stain down the front, dark smudges where he couldn't wash it clean anymore, missing buttons, with a rip up the side seam -- but there it is, whole and only a little faded, his car keys tucked into the pocket.

It's the Djinn. It's gotta be, he thinks, fingers reflexively wrapping around the metallic key chain, the familiar shape digging into his palm. It's done something to him -- _doing something to him?_ \-- and he needs to try Sam again, get through before whatever's happening gets worse, catch it before --

The picture hammers it home, innocuous little frame on the shelf in the living room, achingly familiar face layering over Carmen's words from minutes before, _your mom's birthday_. Dean's got the canvas jacket over his shoulders and the front door ripped open before he knows it, keys in the ignition before he has the presence of mind to see the changes in his baby -- stick shift instead of automatic, an iPod hooked into the stereo. Candy wrappers and a half-empty bottle of Mountain Dew rolling around in the passenger seat.

\---

The light's on over the walkway, and his mother answers the door before he's even finished knocking, carefully smiling mouth and unmasked worry in her eyes. There's grey weaving through her hair like fine dust, and for a second, Dean almost thinks she could wipe it away, one broad sweep of her terry-cloth sleeve and it'd be gone forever.

"Mom," he whispers, staring at her face, the pale pink of her robe, worn slippers on her feet. "Mom, I -- can I --?"

She moves aside, holding the door open to let him in, and it's too much, too much to see the fading flowered wallpaper, the scuffmarks on the hardwood floor in the entryway. His arms are shaking when he pulls her into a tight hug, buries his face in the softness of her hair like he's a little boy.

"Sweetheart," she's saying, words Dean can barely understand through the haze, the sense of _impossible_ and _unreal_ drifting through him like the warm vanilla cookie scent of her even as she's solid under his hands, her braided hair smooth, her robe a little scratchy. "Sweetheart, what are you doing here?"

_I wished for you_, he almost says, _I wished for you and it turns out genies are fuckin' real, who'da thought_, but thinking of the Djinn makes him remember something else.

"Sammy," he says, letting go and stepping back. "I called -- there was no answer."

Mary peers into his face like there's something more she needs him to say, corners of her mouth tilting almost imperceptibly down. When she speaks, hesitant, slow, he's shaking again, coiled tight, nails worrying at the meat of his palms.

"Sam's going to be here tomorrow, you know that. Dean... you've been drinking. I'll call Carmen, tell her to come get you."

"No, please, don't," he answers, unable to say anything to refute the accusation; he knows how he must sound, must look, beating down his mother's door after midnight, clutching at her sleeves and asking about his brother. "Can I stay here tonight?"

"Are you sure you don't want me to call Carmen?" Mary asks again, and Dean shakes his head.

"Yeah, yeah, I'm sure. I can just -- you go to bed. I'll just -- " he trails off, tongue-tied and desperate, closes his eyes and feels her sleeve brush the top of his head, her warm palm settling into his hair, fingers gently scratching through.

"Dean," she sighs, tired, and he feels a hot stab of guilt for waking her up. "Ah -- well, you know where the spare blankets are."

He nods, even though he doesn't have a clue, watches his mother cross the living room and head for the stairs.

"I love you," he whispers after her, and she pauses at the foot of the staircase, looks at him with her hand resting on the rail. "Just get some rest, okay?"

He doesn't bother looking for blankets, just pulls the knit throw off of the back of the couch, wraps it around himself and mashes at one of the cushions with his fists until its comfortable enough under his cheek. Listens to the creak of his mother's footsteps in the hallway above him, in the bedroom, trying to hold on to the sound until he drifts off to sleep.

\---

The wall clock's ticking twelve thirty when Dean opens his eyes, slowly blinks away the sunlight trespassing through the window. The same beige couch cushion is bunched under his head, but he's kicked off the afghan in his sleep, abandoned to the flowered carpet. He doesn't know if he's supposed to feel relief or fear at the sight of the neatly organized bookshelves, a silver-framed picture of his smiling mom and dad wedged in on the top, a big, blown-up photo of just John -- in a baseball uniform, bat in hand -- on the opposite wall.

"He loved that stupid team," his mother says, soft and wistful, walking into the room. She stops to catch his stare. _Loved_, he thinks and Dean doesn't need to ask, can't, Mary coming closer.

"Afternoon, honey."

"Why'dja let me sleep so long?" he complains, folding the throw, straightening up the sofa and the coffee table, and she shakes her head.

"Looked like you needed it. Figured you'd probably taken today off and Carmen said as much."

"Carmen called?" he's proud of not stumbling over her name, tries saying it like it means something more than the girl from last night, and his mother nods.

"This morning. She said to tell you she's probably doing a double tonight. Dean," she hesitates, rubbing at her forehead. "I know it's not really my place to say, but she didn't sound too happy. She's overworked at that hospital, and the girl just can't say no. Maybe you -- "

"I -- she -- yeah," Dean stammers, unable to come up with anything concrete on the spot. "I should probably talk to her. She can't be the only -- uh, the only one they can rely on, right?"

Mary's face softens, and Dean wonders how serious it's supposed to be between him and this Carmen girl if his mother's so concerned about her work schedule.

"You want some breakfast before you go? Or, well, I suppose it would be lunch by now."

He pushes a little more while Mary gets bread and cheese out of the fridge, words chosen a lot more carefully than last night. Finds out his girlfriend's a nurse at Lawrence Memorial, that he works at a garage on Crawford and Ninth, and wonders the impossibility of it all as he bites into his grilled cheese sandwich, thick and homemade, couple of warmed tomatoes inside, served up with potato chips and a pickle spear he fishes out of a jar. Mary cuts hers into quarters and joins him at the table, sighing as she watches him chew.

"Best sandwich ever," he mutters, swallowing, embarrassed, feeling a hot blush on his cheeks. His mother shakes her head, pushes a basket of napkins towards his side of the table.

\---

After lunch, Dean washes their plates, the forks and knives, takes his time drying them, putting them away into drawers and cabinets. Tries to prolong his stay as much as he can, even though he knows he's wasting minutes he should be spending trying to figure this out. Maybe the KU library would be a good place to start -- probably better than Lawrence Public -- or maybe not; Sam's the one who'd know for sure, always better at stuff like this, as much as he hates admitting Sam's better at _anything_.

Sam. Sam who's supposed to be getting in tomorrow -- today -- maybe he'll know exactly what they need to do, already has it written out step by step. Or maybe they won't need to do anything at all. Maybe Djinns -- djinn? djinnies? -- grant wishes like in the fairy tales. Maybe this is their second chance. For Sammy to meet his mother, his real mom, breathing and smiling, not a shadow in a house full of old ashes. Maybe -- maybe, he thinks, turning away from the sink, drying his hands on a plaid towel.

"Mom, when did you say Sam was gonna get here, again?"

At the table, his mother makes a small noise and coughs, loud and long, setting her drink down. Wipes at her mouth with the back of her hand, then a napkin, coughs again and glances at the clock. "Down the wrong pipe, sheesh. Dean, honey -- "

"You don't think -- you don't think that wishes can really come true?" he blurts out, and she looks up at him, forehead wrinkled and lips pressed together, about to say something when a car horn honks outside, sending her up and to the front door.

Dean follows her out to the driveway, little silver Honda pulling in behind his car, tall blond guy first out of the driver's seat and going around to the trunk for the bags. He's got a Stanford Track and Field t-shirt over long sleeves and jeans, blood-red lettering on the grey cotton, big green pine tree -- sycamore? sequoia? -- printed over the center of his chest.

"Good to see you again, Mrs. Winchester," the blond guy grins, bending down to let Mary pull him into a hug. "Dean, man, how's it goin'?"

He knows he's supposed to say something, guy's hand in the air, offered for him to shake, but Dean feels dazed, shell-shocked as he stares at the girl swinging out of the passenger side, pushing her sunglasses back up into her messy bed-head.

"Hi, mom," she calls, flip-flops smacking the pavement. She'd be taller than her boyfriend in a pair of heels, Dean thinks, watching her slouch her shoulders as she gets closer. Takes in the oversized, shapeless Track and Field hoodie zipped up over her jean cut-offs and endless long legs covered in even, dark, California tan.

His heart slams against his ribs, hard heaving hurt like it's trying to break through bone and skin when she says his name, and he steps forward, numb arms wrapping around her shoulders.

Up close, face to face, he counts the moles on her cheeks, stares at the scrunch of her upturned nose, the shaggy, too-long hair falling over her brows. She could be Sammy's sister, tall, rawboned girl crushed into his chest, murky hazel eyes meeting his and sliding closed before she turns away.

"And hello to you, too," she breathes out, twisting from his grip, "Jesus, Dean -- lungs, I kinda need them. Jess, could you grab my jacket? It's in the backseat, the brown one."

\---

He scrubs a hand over his face, fingers catching on stubble. Leans back in his chair and picks at a chip on his plate, feeling the greasy crunch under his skin. He's still too full from lunch, stomach weighted down and queasy, but Mary herded Sam and Jess to the table as soon as they cleared the front door.

"...hungry all morning," Dean catches as his mother moves from fridge to counter, something else about late nights and flights and long drives, soda and candy bars and not enough of the good things. The girl leans her head onto her boyfriend's shoulder, whispers something quick and annoyed. He whispers back, hand snaking up her neck, fingers rubbing into her hair, close and familiar. Dean doesn't know why he's staring again until she meets his eyes over the table, eyebrows scrunched and nostrils flaring, like they're about to let loose with a puff of cartoon steam.

The move is totally _Sam's_, kid getting pissy for some reason or other, _water pressure in the shower sucks, coffee's burnt, you got crumbs all over my bed, stop touching my damn computer_.

Mary joins them at the table, pitcher of iced tea passed around as she questions Jess about an internship he's been working. Jess smiles, white teeth on parade as he launches into descriptions of charts, numbers and cash flows, one big hand idly playing with the girl's hair.

"Derivatives," he says, and "risk management," as Mary nods, Sam smiling indulgently and rolling her eyes. "Thanks, mom. You got him on the soapbox; now he'll never stop." They laugh together as Jess mock-thwaps her on the back of the head and Mary reassures him that she's very interested in hearing about something called futures contracts.

The girl's cheeks dimple when she laughs, throaty and low; Dean doesn't want to, can't think of her as _Sammy_, because she isn't. She can't be. _Sam. Samantha_, he tries in his head, an alien name, wrong and nothing like the one he uses when he calls Sammy 'princess'.

He snaps his head up at the sound of his name in her strange and unfamiliar voice, the way it wraps around the simple letters, once, twice. The girl is staring at him, lips pursed.

"Earth to Dean. Come in, Dean. Where are you?"

"What," he rasps out, and she sighs, trading a quick look with Jess, repeats herself slowly and carefully, like she's talking to a child.

"I said, are you staying here tonight, since we're taking the spare bedroom. Obviously."

"I was just gonna take the couch, anyway. If, uh -- mom, you don't -- if it's OK," he adds quickly, turning towards Mary.

"Sweetie, don't get me wrong," she says, standing up to clear away the plates; Jess heads her off, takes his dishes and Sam's and carries them into the kitchen. "I'm thrilled that you're -- hanging out here, all of a sudden, but --"

"Won't Carmen miss you?" Sam cuts in, leaning across the table, elbows digging into the tablecloth, waggling her eyebrows at him like she's just told her first dirty joke.

"She's doing a double tonight," Dean tells her, and Sam nods, pushing her chair aside. "Jess, I'm gonna bring our stuff upstairs," she calls, doesn't wait for her boyfriend to answer as she walks out of the room.

Dean swallows the rest of his iced tea, soft auburn brown, burning too sweet, powdery crystals still undissolved and sticky on his tongue.

\---

On the couch later that night, he tries to remember if he ever wanted a sister. If it ever mattered what the red, wrinkled little thing Mom and Dad brought home from the hospital would grow up to be, beyond the abstract 'Sam Winchester', something as impossible back then as the idea of Dean himself ever growing as tall as Dad.

"He doesn't _do_ anything," he'd complained, poking a hand through the bars of the baby's crib, not enough words to express the disappointment at having to share his parents with a little brother who cried and cried and cried some more, mom fussing with bottles and rattles and night lights.

Dean tries to pinpoint the day, the minute, the moment Sammy stopped being the needy, squalling, messy baby and became Sammy, his baby brother. He squints, tries to think back to that time, but can't. Can't remember any split, any boundaries but the fire; it spreads through everything, blinding color and melting heat. The only _before_ and _after_ that's ever really mattered.

In this place, there is no fire. He asks, careful, dreading and yearning for his mother's reply, little crow's-feet gathering around her eyes. "No, Dean, there wasn't. Maybe you heard something, when you were little -- but, no, I don't remember a big fire anywhere in town." She doesn't say anything else for a while, just sits there next to him, tense shoulders and pink-slippered feet, couch springs groaning loudly as she stands to go.

"Are you sure you're going to be OK here?"

_No, mom_, he wants to say, _no, I'm not_, but he smiles instead, wishes her good night. Lets her turn off the overhead light and retreat up the stairs. Her door clicks shut, shuffle of slippers quieting, and Dean closes his eyes, shoves a hand under his cheek, braces himself for another night without his knife under the pillow.

\---

He's close to drifting off, jumble of thoughts rolling slower, lazier, edges tangling and blurring together, when he hears the squeak of the floorboards, three careful, measured steps and then nothing. Just the soft sighs of the house settling for a few moments, the faint sound of an engine down the street.

Dean starts counting seconds before he even knows it, force of habit ingrained by years of practice, _if you make any noise, do a ten-count and listen; don't move until you're sure nobody's heard_. The footsteps resume on nine. Sam always was too impatient, he thinks, listens for four more steps that sound like they're coming from right above him, too close to Mary's door, then nothing again for ten more heartbeats.

Another step, and this time he has to strain to hear, but Dean sees her sneaking down the stairs soon enough, hunch of shadowy shoulders, one arm leaning heavily on the banister. Five steps down before she stops to listen again, six more to cross the living room; he sits up before Sam makes it all the way to the couch, pushes the blanket down by his socked feet.

"Oh, good, you're pretty much dressed. Here," she whispers loudly, slides his boots across the floor, tosses his jacket next to them. "Get these on."

Her face looks stern, harsh in the little light that's leaking in, determined glint of eyes and tight mouth so much like Sammy's that Dean forgets himself for a moment. Opens to laugh, _You brought my shoes, aw, honey, you shouldn't have_, but the chuckle dies as she glares at him, chews her bottom lip with sharp little teeth.

Dean ties his bootlaces, zips up the coat; she's still wearing her shorts, but she's got a windbreaker on over the hoodie, dark red nylon that shimmers under the porch light.

"Come _on_," she says, impatient, flip-flops clapping wetly over the lawn. They're not the same ones she was wearing earlier, black and striped instead of green and stamped with the Nike logo. "Dean, hurry up." She doesn't drag him by the arm, but she might as well; no way he wouldn't follow her now, curiosity leeching through the adrenalin in his blood.

She stops by the Impala, runs her fingers over the door handle, but shakes her head when he digs for the keys. Lets her hand slide down the metal and pulls away, heads down the sidewalk in huge, graceless steps, smack of rubber heels echoing in the quiet.

Dean doesn't think _his_ Sam owns flip-flops; just sneakers and boots and maybe a pair of worn, ratty Chucks, unless he's finally tossed them out sometime when Dean wasn't paying attention. But sneakers or sandals, she still walks just like Sam, too-long stride, hands shoved in her pockets and her shoulders slouched. She really is tall, for a girl; maybe not quite Sam-tall, but who the hell is -- kid shot up like a weed at fifteen and never stopped. Coach at Buckley High was always on Sam's case to sign up for basketball, Dean recalls, but can't remember the name of the guy, curly balding head and the constant stink of menthols.

Sam turns onto Summit Road, then Parker as he follows, wondering what it was like for her at school, _kid Winchester_, the burden _his_ Sam avoided more often than not, moving around from school to school with the seasons. They never stayed long enough for secret places, hideouts to sneak away to in the middle of the night, familiar and reassuring and theirs; the Impala was as much hideaway as she was home. But the way this girl's not looking back, walking fast and certain he's following right behind, means that here, in this version of home, he's supposed to know the lay of the land and the nooks and the crannies. Has walked these streets with her when she was eight and twelve and fifteen, _Dean Winchester's baby sister_, a life they never had until last night, born in a shitty warehouse in Joliet.

Sam slows down as they walk out onto Autumn Street, the steeple of St. Bridget's splitting the sky up ahead, the dark stretch of East Cemetery fenced in to the right. She stops by the entrance -- closed after sunset, rusty lock of the gate rasping against the grating -- and waits for him to catch up, too-long sleeves dragging over her palms.

"Come on," she nods at the low fence, more decoration than deterrent, and Dean's about to ask her what the hell they're doing here when she hops the fence, long legs swinging. Lands on the other side with an 'oof', gravel crunching under her feet as she starts down the walkway.

Dean's checked the trunk of his car already; knows there's nothing there except for a gas can, a tire jack, some old burger wrappers and a beer can or two. Crusty suspicious stain on the felt but no hidden boxes of ammo, crosses and runes scratched into the box tops. No burlap bag of coarse salt stashed all the way in the back, no crossbow he's been meaning to restring.

"Well, fuck me. We're civilians," he'd grinned at the time, slamming the trunk shut, but now, watching Sam weave around the gravestones, Dean feels frustration slip in between his ribs, disappointment scraping none too carefully through the bones. Sam and Dean, sittin' in a graveyard. Every night, always and forever, no matter how you slice it. Even in this bizarre dream world where Sammy has boobs and there are no demons.

He goes over the fence awkwardly, too low, dull iron posts catching his thigh. Rubs his hand against his jean-covered leg, faintly painful throb telling him there are going to be bruises come morning. Sam's a distant, pale, wavering stain between the trees, and Dean ignores the scraping ache, runs to meet her in front of a grey granite marker, shoulders hunched and hands shoved into her pockets.

_John Winchester, 1954 - 2006_, matching space left over on the slab to fit in their mother's name. Not the grave Dean remembers, another fire and the stench of burning flesh, clink of dog tags vanishing into the ground. He swallows the sour taste creeping up his throat, stares at the neatly trimmed grass, the little red white and blue flag leaning over the stone. Feels Sam step closer, their arms colliding dully, nylon sliding on canvas, meets her eyes, huge and dry, before she grabs his sleeve, hot fingers burning through to his skin.

She doesn't say anything, but her eyelids flicker, swoosh of lashes lightning quick like she's trying to blink it all away, her daddy in the ground, her blond boyfriend back at the house. She isn't the Sam he knows; isn't the Sam Dean taught to salt a doorway, pick a lock, hold a gun in hands too small for it. Her hand on his sleeve is still too small, fingers long but thin, nails covered in chipping pink polish. But she scrunches her eyebrows, bites down on her lip and Dean can almost see the kid he showed how to tie shoelaces and tell time, _big hand on the three, little hand on the one, how many minutes_, until she blinks again and he's gone.

"Earth to Dean," she says after a few moments, and he lets her drag him down the pebbled walkway, further away from the street. East Cemetery is bigger than he remembers, long winding paths and groves of tall, silent trees glinting with memorial plaques, _donated by_, _in memory of_, _rest in peace_. Newer burials give way to the older graves, worn letters, faux sarcophagi like giant tables, grieving angels set into dark stone. Sam stops at one of the massive slabs, something that looks like it belongs in Dracula's family crypt, semi-circle of trees sprawling their branches all around. Traces a hand over the top before hopping up onto it like it's nothing more than a table, nods at Dean until he moves forward, closer and closer until he's standing flush up against her, between her knees.

"I'm going to marry Jess," she says, looking up at him, bangs falling away from her eyes -- Sam's eyes, wide and ice-clear in the moonlight. "He proposed to me. We're going to tell mom tomorrow."

"OK," Dean nods, unsure of himself. He's standing too close, her bare thighs bracketing his, her knee digging painfully into his leg, but she doesn't seem to notice or care, cocking her head to stare out somewhere beyond him, into the trees.

"I'm telling you now," she says, knees moving in tighter. "So it's not a surprise for you tomorrow, OK?" Her voice wavers on the OK, tense string ready to snap. It scrapes at him, dull, ugly chafe of pain in his chest that's been smarting since he got here, since she stepped out of the car with her Future Business Leader All-American, drowning in his far too big sweatshirt.

"OK," Dean echoes, hollow sound that catches in a breath. He doesn't have time to hope it's the right answer, because Sam snaps her head towards him, unexpected, two spots of color rising to her pale cheeks.

"What the fuck, Dean," she bristles, hand coming up to grip at his shoulder. "Why are you doing this? Acting like my perfect brother all of a sudden, saying 'OK' like it's all just fine? What the hell is wrong with you?"

Sam's fingers knead into his shoulder, hard and insistent, like she wants to gouge the answer right out of him, but Dean doesn't have a clue what to tell her, not as her other hand snakes up his chest, tangles in the roll of his collar. She yanks down, forcing his face into hers, her breath whuffing warmth over his cheeks, her heartbeat knocking against his ribs, _thump thump thump_, and he knows, with sudden, terrifying clarity, what's about to happen the moment before he tastes her mouth.

She's not Sam. Maybe she's his sister in this fucked-up bizarro-world, but none of her feels familiar, not her teeth closing over his lip, hard, harder, hardest, slick tongue sliding over to soothe the hurt. Not that _his_ Sam would feel familiar like this, hands weaving around his neck, his jaw, pulling rough and greedy at his hair, and that thought punches into Dean like a fist, leaves him stunned under her hot, desperate mouth.

It doesn't matter that she walks like Sammy and smiles like him, flips her stupid fucking messy hair out of her eyes just like him; she isn't. She's not, but he can feel the rise and fall of her chest, the rabbit-fast jumps of her pulse as she clutches him tighter, probably hard enough to bruise.

Dean tastes the salt before he feels the wet trail over her cheeks, tries to pull back but she won't let go, slender hands still grappling at his shoulders, nails scratching into the canvas of his jacket.

"Sam, stop," he pleads into her skin, "come on, Sam, Sammy." He doesn't mean to call her that, but it slips out anyway, uninvited, and she whimpers, sobs garbled, mashed-up words before latching onto his mouth again, wet tongue licking at the seam of his lips, trying to get in.

"Sammy," he mumbles, catching her hands in his and pushing her back. She might be tall, but she's so much smaller than Sam, all sharp elbows and fragile, delicate wrists in his grip, messy tears flooding over her face, down to her collar, slicking the nylon.

"Fuck," she mutters, meeting his stare, wet, angry, murky-dark eyes. "I fucking hate this, Dean, you know that? Hate that you do this to me, every time. Can't ever get away from you." She swallows back a sob and her voice turns dull. "I try, and I try, but it's always this, no matter what I do. It's always this! This place, this -- say something, fuck," she moans, burying her face against his chest.

_Sammy_ is the only word Dean knows that fits, mouths it, automatic, meaningless, into the soft part of her hair, the smell of her shampoo something fruity and sweet. What else can he possibly tell her, he wonders. That he's not _him_, hasn't been, not until a day ago? He's tangled with vampires, ghouls, demons, but they ain't got nothing on this girl, still sniffling lightly into his coat, hot wet press of her face like an ache that's deep. He shuffles through the day in his head, _morning, noon, lunch, dish soap on his hands, little silver Honda pulling up to the curb_, something, anything that could give him a clue, a hint, and freezes, the world grinding down all around him.

_Don't get me wrong, I'm thrilled that you're hanging out here all of a sudden. I figured you'd have the day off. Are you sure you don't want me to call Carmen_? His mother's stern eyes as she asked if he'd rather go home.

He jump-starts, shivering, when Sam reaches up to kiss him again, soft press of salty-wet lips to his cheek, his jaw, the corner of his mouth. _Does mom know_ is a bitter weight on his tongue, but she licks it away, pulling back, _can't be, can't possibly be true that she'd want me away from them when my sister brought her fiancé home_.

"Does Jess know he's supposed to take you away from all this?" he asks instead, an empty echo of what he really wants to say, and Sam flinches in his arms.

"I swear, you _want_ him to know," she snarls, eyes narrowed. "Dontcha, the way you were acting all day, jumped on me the second we got out of the car, Dean. Fuckin' -- move, dammit," she shrills, standing up. She's still plastered against him, long legs and skinny arms, and he's not expecting the shove, her sharp shoulder sending him staggering backwards, slipping on the wet, uneven grass.

Dean hits the ground hard, another ache quick to flare up where a tree root's digging into his back. Before he's had time to catch his breath, Sam's on him, frantic hands pulling at the zip of his jacket, ripping at his belt. Her face is wet, red and puffy from crying, and he can't make himself tell her to stop, but can't look at her, either. He turns his head to the side, catches glints of distant streetlights, the black snake of the walkway, Dad's gravestone lost somewhere among all the others, and Sam looks up, follows his gaze with hers.

"Yeah... if Dad had known, it would've killed him," she seethes, vicious. Bends her head, swipes her tongue across her lips in a way that's so like Sam that he grinds his teeth, tries to banish the thought of his brother bent over a book or his laptop, concentrating hard, tip of his tongue sliding back and forth over the split of his mouth. Sam would chew on it a little, lost in thought, catch himself doing it and quickly lick his lips, lean up and blow a strand of hair away from his face. But it's never been like this, Sam's breath huffing over the fly of his jeans, Sam's fingers pulling open the buttons, heat flooding Dean's face when Sam's mouth closes over the head of his dick.

She sucks him hard and messy, heavy glisten of spit running down her chin, her tongue snaking around his slit, the thick vein on the underside. They've had less than twenty four hours between them, but she hits every spot that makes him shiver and shake, helps herself with her hands when she can't get all of him into her mouth. Her fingers are rough, firm, sliding around him just the way he likes -- _the way she knows he likes_, Dean thinks suddenly through the haze of red heat rushing through him.

He's still dazed, breathless when she spits to the side, wipes her pink, swollen mouth with the back of her hand. She zips him back up, brushes stray grass from her sleeve as she stands and turns. Starts walking away, that god-damned Sam walk, slight slouch and gigantic stride.

Dean stumbles up, pulling his jacket closed, but she doesn't slow down. His shoulder is throbbing and his thigh aches dully when he runs to catch up, boots squelching down in the wet grass. He catches her already on the gravel walkway, little pebbles scattering away, crunching and clattering under their steps, and she hunches over a little more, doesn't say another word the whole way back to the house.

\---

Sam goes right upstairs as soon as they're through the front door. She leaves Dean to catch it and make sure it shuts quietly. She leaves her flip-flops on the mat by the hall closet, bare feet climbing in careful, measured steps. Back on the living room couch, Dean can barely hear her go into her room, then Jess's low, sleep rumbled voice and the bed settling with a creek. After seconds, there's nothing more.

He counts time by the ticking clock, the sound of his own breathing suddenly too loud in his ears, but nothing happens after he counts to sixty or one hundred. No Jess running down the stairs, fists drawn, to pound the shit out of him -- not that Dean couldn't take him if he tried. Jess is a pretty solid guy, sleek Track and Field muscle, but Dean would bet his car he's never been in a bar brawl, never had to learn to fight dirty, _fair is for the other guy; you just wanna win_.

There's a small part of him that wants to say Jess would have every right, a hushed whisper in the back of his mind, but Dean thinks of the other Jess instead, the one who isn't tanned and smiling, sleeping upstairs snug next to Sam. He remembers the way his brother mourned, the way he wasn't himself for months, dead-eyed and unforgiving, and wonders if this Sam would do the same.

_I'm marrying Jess_, she said, tense, wavering voice, but Dean's treacherous memory supplies other words, a yellow-tinged taunt from months ago. _Sammy was gonna propose to pretty little Jess. Been shopping for rings_. Dean never had the chance to talk to Jess, met and gone in the blink of an eye, and he wonders if they're anything alike, the dead girl and the guy sleeping upstairs. Or if all that mattered to Sam was the safe, white-toothed smile, the natural blond curls, the sweet normal California twenty-something and the monster Sam was running from.

"A world without monsters," Dean laughs scornfully to himself, sound cut short when he remembers where he is. His shoulder still smarts, a miserable, spasming hurt that spreads all the way to his gut. "No such thing."

\---

He wakes to the smell of coffee, the clink-clank of cups in the kitchen. There are dirty breakfast dishes stacked in the sink, and Mary nods at him as he pours the remainder of the pot into a red polka-dotted mug. It's thick, sludgy, and already going cold, so Dean dumps in more sugar and milk, shoves the mug into the microwave and watches it spin through the glass.

"Sam took Jess into town," Mary says behind him, like he'd go looking if she didn't tell him. Dean peers into her face as he joins her at the counter, tries to read her for anger or disappointment, but can't. There are more lines than he remembers trailing around her eyes, her mouth. Her hair's loose around her shoulders, a cloud of silver and blond, and she looks as faraway as Sam does, strange pieces of a precious face, rearranged in a pattern he doesn't recognize.

_She knows -- doesn't know -- suspects -- can't tell_ pulses with a repetitive throb, but Mary only smiles, setting a pan onto the stove.

"I feel like French toast. You feel like French toast? Those two had cereal, didn't want to wait."

There's syrup on the table to go with the French toast, little glass jug shaped like a maple leaf. Mary dusts the plates with cinnamon, cuts his portion on the diagonal with a little grin. "Remember when you wouldn't eat it if I cut straight across?" she says, setting the plate in front of him, and Dean nods automatically, tries to remember a time he wouldn't eat something just because of the shape of the slice.

"We have dinner reservations at six tonight," she tells him as he's scrubbing the frying pan later, rinsing the coffee mugs and the bowls in the sink, bits of cornflakes still floating in the watered-down milk. She's got the morning paper spread out in front of her when he turns to answer, pages already gutted for the funnies, the crossword half-filled in, Sam's dark, blocky script. _The same, even the handwriting's the same and she does the puzzle in pen, overconfident_, Dean has time to think before he notices a title on the folded front page, dish towel dropping limply to the floor.

"Can I see that for a sec?" he asks, proud of the way his voice doesn't break even though his heart is pounding out no after no after no, a harsh rhythm as Mary hands him the paper.

"United Britannia Flight 424 Remembered," he mutters to himself, stares at the grainy shot of a woman leaning down to light a memorial candle in a sea of others, blurred signatures and scraps of eulogies on the white wall behind her. "No. No, no, no. I stopped that crash."

"What, honey?"

"Uh, nothing. Thought it was something else," Dean nods, handing back the paper. "I should probably head home. Get cleaned up. Thanks for the breakfast, mom."

\---

The Lawrence Public Library doesn't have enough computers open, and the sign-up sheet's filled, so he goes to the university instead, pores through stacks of microfiche and countless online articles. Browses obituary after obituary, _Mysterious Illness Baffles Doctors_, _Girl Drowns in Hotel Pool_, _Animal Attack... Downtown?_. The beginnings of a headache chafe at his skull, hint of a needle scraping over his temples, and Dean moves on to books instead, heavy collections of myths and legends, wishing wells, peri, magic lamps and demigods. Too many stories that still explain nothing. Pictures of pre-Christian beasts with feathers and claws, beaks and tentacles. He catches some professor of -- Arabic? Islamic Studies? -- he can't keep it straight in his head anymore, too worked up, too queasy, too insistent -- and the guy feels it, awkwardly answering the questions. All but tells him that maybe he'd benefit from the help of a completely different professional, instead.

"Yeah, thanks for your time," Dean says finally, giving up, goes to pick up his car at visitor parking.

Driving down Summit Road, he turns right almost automatically, traverses the length of Parker and makes it out onto Autumn Street. The cemetery gate's thrown wide open in the daytime, chain and lock wrapped useless over a rusty post. There is a red Ford truck parked by the caretaker's office, a little Volkswagen with the doors thrown open in the paved area beyond. There are a few people walking the lanes -- an older guy with a big, yellow dog pulling on his leash, a solemn girl with a folded purple umbrella under her arm. The gravel crunches under the car tires as he pulls in, parks near a speed limit sign he didn't notice last night. He can see the pale smudge of John's gravestone from the car, bright twist of flag swaying softly over the grass, but doesn't bother getting out. Just leans back onto the seat and closes his eyes, afraid that if he looks, Sammy will be there, red windbreaker and grey sleeves of the hoodie poking out from under the cuffs.

\---

When Dean gets back to the apartment on Barker Avenue, Carmen's sleeping off her nightshift in the bedroom, blinds drawn, her face buried in a pillow. A black dress is on a hanger over the door, some kind of shiny, slinky fabric that smells faintly like perfume and girl, and four pairs of shoes are lined up next to the full-length mirror, buckles and straps gleaming dully in the reflected light. She's set out clothes for him, too, Dean sees in a moment, two shirts in dark shades of blue and one green, same black pants and tie to go with any of the choices. He fingers the green shirt, too soft and filmy -- it feels like it'd stain just from being looked at too hard. Watches the tiny rise and fall of Carmen's shoulder blades; there's a little mole at the nape of her neck, right below the glossy sleek curl of her hair.

He trips over yet another pair of heels on his way to the living room, a curse catching in his throat. The shoes are bright red, lacquered, heels spiking lethal, tall and needle-thin and they make Dean wonder what the hell Sam will turn up in at dinner. Sam in a goddamn dress, not something he'd ever thought he'd see -- might still never see, he considers, wondering if she even owns shoes that aren't flip-flops. If she ever leaves the house wearing something that doesn't belong to Jess. He tries to picture her in a gown as he's stripping for a shower. Maybe something like the one hanging over the bedroom door, sleek and low-cut, but he can't see anything except for the shaggy hair, soft lips puffing up to blow too-long bangs away from huge, hazel eyes.

Dean hears the alarm clock yowling right as he's rinsing soap off of his face, eyes closed to avoid the sting. The water is just this side of too warm, and the pressure is awesome. The showerhead's even got three massage settings, although he's only bothered trying one, heavy jets pulsing over his sore shoulders and back.

"You in there, babe?" Carmen opens the door, lets in a blast of cold air, and Dean shivers, washing the rest of the suds from his skin.

"Yeah, gimme a minute," he tells her, wondering if she's planning to join him. She's a gorgeous girl, hot and curvy in all the right places; he can see the blurred bright blue of her bra and panties through the frosted glass of the shower door, but he's surprisingly relieved when she turns on the tap in the sink instead, toothbrush clanking out of its holder.

He quickly towels off and dresses once she's done, throws his towel into the laundry basket in the corner.

"Can you zip me?" Carmen asks, poking her head back in, hair swept back into some kind of elaborate knot, a few curls left purposefully loose. She makes a soft noise when he runs a hand up her back, catching the metal pull of her zipper, and Dean wonders why she hasn't said a word about him staying at his mother's two nights in a row, no calls, no excuses, no big deal. Not that she'd ever suspect the truth, he thinks bitterly, no one in their right mind would. _Sammy and Dean, sittin' in a graveyard_, and he knows he's supposed to feel guilty that this girl hooked up IVs or cleaned bullet wounds, _worked_, while he did _that_. He doesn't even know if she's a nurse in the OR or ER or in pediatrics and there doesn't seem to be a simple way of asking her; not without trading "how was your shift" for "how's your mother, how's your sister, how's the boyfriend", and Dean's not ready to answer any of those, not if he wants to get through tonight with any measure of success.

He owes that to Sam, he tells himself as Carmen fixes the knot of his tie. Get through the night like a good brother, let Sam and Jess have the evening they deserve. _I'm telling you now, so it's not a surprise for you tomorrow. Sammy's been shopping for rings_.

"Hey," Carmen says, quick, graceful hands brushing off imaginary lint from his shirtfront. "You in there, babe?"

\---

He doesn't think he's smiled more in his entire life. At mom, at Jess, showing off Sammy's hand, long fingers and the rainbow glint of fractured light caught there. At Carmen, raising a glass of champagne, at the guy who hands him the _wine list_, for fuck's sake. Dean can't remember the last time he drank wine that didn't come with a communion wafer.

"Excuse me," Sam says, setting her napkin down next to her plate, "back in a moment," and Dean can't help watching her walk across the floor, tall, willowy woman in a tight black dress, legs that go for miles. He wonders how many guys made plays for her with some version of "you gotta be a model," the long, easy grace of her stride in needle-thin, lethal looking heels, the deliberate messy mop of her hair. Jess jumps up to pull out her chair when she returns and shit, she _is_ taller, and maybe if Dean wasn't so busy trying to smile, he might've ribbed Jess about it.

It takes him by surprise when Mary smiles at _him_ over her dessert plate -- some sort of weird, precarious construction of whipped cream and raspberries -- what might be a genuine, soft stretch of lips, little laugh lines creasing her cheeks. Dean takes another gulp of his wine and tries to avoid her eyes, afraid to see which it is -- his mother smiling _because_ or _despite_, Happy fuckin' Birthday, just a normal family out celebrating _milestones_ and _new beginnings_.

_Don't worry_, he wants to tell them, her and Sam both, _don't worry, I can't fuck it up any more. You made it, you got the god damn prize_, but he stretches his lips instead, that he can do, and smiles, smiles, _smiles_.

Carmen puts a warm hand on his thigh, nails scratching lightly at the cloth of his creased dress-pants. Whispers, "What do you say, later, we get you a cheeseburger?"

"Hell, yes," he whispers back, still smiling. "How did I end up with an awesome chick like you?"

\---

They drink Coronas on the couch; Carmen slices the lime on a little wooden board, sharp knife glinting dangerous silver in her hands. Dean watches her half-heartedly out of the corner of his eye, but his mind is elsewhere, preoccupied, thoughts racing and pushing each other, every one scrabbling for the finish line.

"I had a lovely birthday," Mary had said before they parted ways for the night, and he wonders if she's going to go to bed early, give the newly happy couple some privacy. Or if they're talking about _risk management_ again, _swaps_, _options_ or _futures_, happily ensconced around the kitchen table, Sam shedding the heels for flip-flops, Jess's button-down thrown over her fancy dress.

"Ow, shit," Carmen swears, shoving her thumb into her mouth, and Dean snaps his head up, stares at the familiar rich color beaded on the knife-blade, little droplets leeching down onto a slice of lime.

"You OK?"

"Yeah, I've got it. Clumsy," she laughs, going into the bathroom for a band-aid. Dean throws away the mangled lime, drops the cutting board into the sink along with the knife, blood smearing under his touch.

_Red-stained knife and flashlight tumbling down to the grimy floor, the crush of broken glass, tattooed hands prying him apart in an abandoned warehouse_; he should've done it the very first night, no books, no articles, just trusting his gut and the tight, leather-wrapped grip of the knife in his hand. Dean thinks longingly about the trunk of his car -- not the one parked downstairs, but the one with the boxes of ammo, the guns, the runes, Algiz, Raidho and Nauthiz, scratched deep into the felt. He remembers when Sam did it -- secret from Dad, but not from him -- floppy haired kid, some mythology book Bobby'd given him clutched in his hand, eagerly going on about the differences between the Elder Futhark and the Younger, something about alphabets and a proto-Germanic language Dean mostly tuned out.

He pulls open two of the kitchen drawers, just in case, but most of the knives are stamped stainless steel, and the middle drawer's full of plastic cutlery, still wrapped in plastic with the Wendy's logo.

"What are you looking for in there?" Carmen asks from behind him, and he turns around, quick, readying excuses.

Curls tumble down around her face, fresh scrubbed from the bathroom -- but no, she's still wearing something, maybe lipstick or gloss or whatever. Dean's never bothered to learn the ins and outs of the stuff women paint on their faces, but Carmen's lips are shiny-pink, like she's been licking them.

"Unzip me?" she says, closing the distance between them, and shit, he knows that look, has practically _patented_ that look, _come-hither-hey-pretty-been-waitin'-to-do-that-all-night_.

"Carm, uh, I'm kinda beat," he mumbles as she presses against him, warm and soft, heady smell of her, perfume and lime, making him groan.

"Relax," she grins, going for his buttons, "just let me do all the work," sultry-sweet, and then laughs, eyes crinkled and pink mouth splitting open, like she knows how corny it sounded. "Missed you," she whispers finally, "and the other night, you just left, and I. I dunno." She draws in a quick, shuddering breath, looks up at him, little dots of shimmer clinging to her eyelids, sparkling over her cheeks.

_Wearin' all that stuff for me_, Dean thinks, the heels and the dress, the lacy candy-colored bra she's got on underneath. Or at least she thinks it's for him, small, slender hands still stuck on his shirt. Doesn't have any idea she's never met him until two nights ago, and it's not that Dean's usually a real get to know them kind of guy. But Carmen's not a girl trading pick-up lines with him in a bar, a girl he's hooking up with in a motel room, a girl who expects nothing than a couple of drinks and a couple hours of his time. This girl thinks it's their room she's pulling him towards, their bed in _their_ apartment, doesn't know the closest thing Dean's got to his own bed is the backseat of his car.

She's still looking at him, anxious teeth worrying her pink bottom lip, wide dark eyes ringed with sparkling silver, and Dean shivers. Bends down, lets her lick the bittersweet taste of beer from his mouth.

\---

He dresses quickly and quietly in the dark, every movement spare and efficient, boots, shirt, buttons, zippers. Green canvas jacket, car keys tucked into the pocket. Soft click of the door and soft tread down the stairs; he wonders if the growl of the Impala's engine turning over will wake her up, desperately hoping it doesn't.

He parks the car on the curb two houses down and walks the rest of the way, wondering if he's going to have to pick the lock of his mother's front door, but the handle gives under his hand when he tries. The china hutch in the dining room isn't locked, either. He's just gotten the bulky silverware box out of the drawer, forks, more forks, spoons -- Dean has no idea why his mother (or anyone, really) needs three different sizes of silver forks -- when the lights click on behind him, making his eyes water.

"What are you doing here?"

Sam's wearing jeans and a long-sleeved t-shirt, sneakers on her feet and the windbreaker, unzipped, over her shoulders. Like she was waiting to catch him instead of sleeping, Dean thinks, plucking one of the silver knives from the box.

"Mom's silverware?" she asks incredulously. "Seriously, Dean, what the hell?"

"What do you want me to say, Sammy," Dean says tiredly, shoving the knife into his pocket. "Don't worry; I'm going."

He puts the spoons and forks back into their satin nests and latches the box, sliding it back into its place in the left-hand drawer.

"This -- this is why I told you ahead of time," she hisses, blocking the doorway. "So you wouldn't do this."

"Yeah, thanks for that," Dean snaps without thinking, too loud in the small room, trying to calculate how long it'll take him to make the drive to Illinois. Wishing Sam had been anywhere but here when he opened the door. Sleeping upstairs. Back in Palo Alto. "You know, in my long and, uh, varied career, I don't think I've ever gotten pity head before." He wishes he could take it back as soon as the words are loose between them, Sam's face drained of color, hands coming up to her mouth.

"You fucking asshole," she breathes out, "you -- Jesus, Dean, keep your voice down! You're gonna wake Jess, and I -- "

"Let him wake up," he growls, meeting her eyes, two dark embers blazing in her chalk-white face. Their shoulders collide, sharp and painful, as he pushes past her to the front door, not bothering to make sure it closes quietly behind him.

He doesn't expect her to pull open the passenger door as he's turning the keys in the ignition.

"Dean," she says, leather squeaking as she lands into the seat, slams her feet resolutely on the dashboard. "What the fuck is that -- blood?"

"Get out," he whispers, defeated, pulling the container of lambs blood out of her reach. "Sam, come on, just go. Please."

"You don't get to do that to me," she says, and he hears the lock of her door close in affirmation. "The knife -- the blood -- what the fuck are you doing?"

"Sammy -- "

"Don't you Sammy me. And that's another thing," she adds, color returning to her face, blots of red on her cheeks like war paint. "Since when do you call me 'Sammy'?"

"Since always," Dean says, pressing his foot down on the gas, starting the car crawling slowly along the street, still vaguely hoping she'll want to get out by the time they reach the corner.

"Right. OK," she nods, rubs her knuckles over a cheekbone. "Where are we going?"

\---

"You're crazy," she says at least ten times in as many minutes. "A djinn. An honest-to-god fuckin' genie, like, Disney, or, uh, Scheherezade?"

"More like The Wishmaster, actually," Dean shrugs, changing lanes. "But, yeah. More or less. Yeah."

"And this is what, some kind of -- alternate reality? You're crazy," Sam says again. "This is crazy. We're driving all the way to fucking Illinois, so you can kill a genie. With one of mom's good knives. And a bucket of sheep blood. Who the hell sold you sheep blood, anyway? Gross."

Dean doesn't bother pointing out that _they_ aren't supposed to be driving anywhere; that this is his job to do, but they're almost to the state border already, and they are not turning back. Sam falls asleep just outside of Springfield, head drooping down the leather until she lands on his shoulder, and he lets her rest there until his arm goes numb.

\---

The warehouse is just like he remembers, decrepit old furniture stacked up in corners, long fenced-in walkway all along one side. Piles of unidentifiable trash, glass sparkling in the beams of their flashlights and crunching under their boots. The air is stale, heavy; Sam sniffles and wrinkles her nose, trails her flashlight over the far wall.

Everything is the same -- except for what he's here for, Dean realizes, seeing the empty hooks hanging from the rafters. Old discarded blood bags, dry and crusted black, hanging from twisted, cracking IV lines. Nobody's used them in months, maybe even years.

"What now?" Sam asks tonelessly, brushing her bangs out of her eyes, and he has no idea whether she means it seriously, _what now, what's our next move, where else could this thing have gone_, or if she's about to let loose with another _you're crazy_. She twirls her flashlight between her palms, beam of light reflecting off of the cracked windows, the metal lattice of the walkway, the knife Dean's still clutching in his white-knuckled hand. Cocks her head, eyes narrowed. Swipes her tongue across her lips, once, twice, sharp white teeth closing on the tip, and Dean can't help chuckling.

"What?"

"Nothin'. It's just -- Sam -- my Sam," he specifies, wincing. "Does that a lot. You know, that uh, tongue chewing thing you do when you're thinking too hard."

"Oh," Sam says in a small voice. She's silent for a minute, considering, but keeps her lips pressed tightly together. "Is it -- is it like this, there? With your Sam?"

Dean pictures his brother, tip of his tongue sliding back and forth over the split of his mouth and feels his face flood with heat.

"No. Not like this," he says finally, looking down at his hands, unable to look Sam in the eye. The tip of his knife is dark red, wet with blood, but the rest of the blade gleams silver-bright, and he angles it under the flashlight, watches the red trickle slowly down.

It's Sam's sudden, panicked 'no' that makes him figure it out; she's staring at the knife with wide, terrified eyes, flashlight beam shaking, metal and glass sparkling all around them.

"No," she says again when he lifts it slowly to his chest, feeling for the ladder of ribs just under his Henley.

"If you die in a dream, you wake up," Dean says, cloth giving way, knifepoint scraping the skin, teasing at the muscle beneath. "Think I read that somewhere."

"No," she says, dropping her flashlight, sharp metallic clang and then crackling as it slowly rolls away on the cement floor. "Dean, please. Please, don't do this. I -- look, I won't -- I won't get married, if that's what you want. Isn't that what you want? Look, Dean, just look!"

She raises her hand in the suddenly bright room, diamond glitter gone from her finger. "No more ring," she says, soft, pleading tone, familiar hazel eyes wide open, and Dean feels a sharp ache spreading through his veins, spiking through his flesh like his arms, his chest, his throat, are full of needles. "We don't have to go back. Not to Kansas, not to California. We can just get in the car and drive. Anywhere. Wherever you want, Dean, please. Or, I can -- I'll tell Jess, if you want me to. I'll tell mom. I'll tell everyone, and it doesn't matter what any of them think, because it'll just be you and me. Please, Dean," she begs, eyes filling with tears, "please. Put the knife down."

It hurts. It hurts like ten knives instead of one. A hundred. A thousand. Red floods through his vision, cold metallic taste filling his mouth and sinking lower, icy sharp pain triggering somewhere deep inside of him. His heart hammers in his chest, desperate, too-fast thumps that get quieter and quieter, until the red smothers even the smallest of the noises away.

\---

"Dean, please," Sam begs, blurring back into focus in skips and jumps. "Wake up, please, wake up," and Dean forces his leaden lids to obey, blinks slowly, once, twice.

Pale gold sunlight filters in through the broken windows of the warehouse, and Sam's cradling Dean against his stupidly wide chest, one hand stroking awkwardly over Dean's cheekbone.

"Sammy," Dean whispers through dry lips, throat feeling like it's on fire. Sam's eyes are puffy, red-rimmed, but he moves careful and steady as he helps Dean up, half-carries him to the Impala, harsh, bright daylight making Dean even queasier. His head feels too heavy for the rest of him, and Dean lets it loll weakly onto Sam's shoulder as Sam pulls the car onto the street.

\---

It takes Dean three days to start feeling like himself again, Sam forcing pills and liquids into him, getting extra blankets from housekeeping to keep him warm, and being a general nuisance until Dean pronounces himself fit to hit the road.

"Still not letting you drive," Sam grumbles, pocketing the car keys, and shaking his head, brushing his too-long bangs out of his eyes. "Thought I'd lost you, Jesus, Dean. Scared me half to death, you asshole."

"Yeah, yeah," Dean says, looking around for his canvas jacket until he remembers it had gone to rags months ago, a few of the worn-soft cloths probably still in trunk, still good for cleaning and odd jobs. "Found me, though, didn't you?"

"I did. And don't you forget it," Sam grins, opening the door. "It's still kinda hard to believe. Mom was alive? And I was -- "

"A big, giant girl," Dean smirks, and follows him out to the car. "Just like I always suspected."

"Hmph," Sam says, shoving his hands in his pockets. He walks just like she did, same little slouch, same too-long stride, and a short, spasming hurt flares through Dean's gut before flickering out.

"Earth to Dean," Sam calls from the driver's seat. Dean snaps his head up. Blinks. Pulls open the passenger door.

"Shut up and drive, bitch," he says, and gets in the car.


End file.
